


The Pros & Cons

by technoxenoholic



Series: The Pros & Cons Universe [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anyway Hello I'm Reading The Comics Now So I Know What I'm Doing Sort Of, Bigender Overlord, Canon Has Been Sent Through A Paper Shredder And Reconstructed With Elmer's All Purpose Glue, Canon-Typical Violence, Chapter Notes Will Contain Specific Warnings If Relevant, Content Warning: Overlord, Crack Treated Seriously, Every Single Character Is Mentally Ill Somehow, Fix-It of Sorts, Healthy Communication, Healthy Relationships, I Will Add More Warnings Later If I've Missed Any, I wasn't going to bother tagging that but then he went and used a gendered term for himself, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Mind Rape, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Multiple Crack Ships, No Sex, Nonbinary Character, Online Dating, Post-Swearth, Simon Furman's Definitions For IDW Cybertronian Units Of Time Are Fake And I Do What I Want, Slow Burn, That Goes In A Separate Fic Later, dating apps, everyone gets therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-10-06 12:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17344997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technoxenoholic/pseuds/technoxenoholic
Summary: Swerve has a teeny, tiny little accident that spirals wildly out of control. How in the universe is a little Autobot bartender supposed to react to catching the interest of a capricious ex-Decepticon Warrior Elite?Meanwhile, thanks to tag-alongs Scorponok and Flame, the Scavengers are on their way to an incredible discovery.





	1. Whoops

**Author's Note:**

> so my friends challenged me to write swerverlord… ~~i really brought it on myself tbh~~

A dim light glowed on the little side table by Swerve’s berth. He lay on his back and held a datapad over his face with one hand, scrolling aimlessly with the index finger of his other. He shuffled and planted one heel against the berth padding, and—now idly rocking his knee from side to side in the air—he scrolled for a while longer.

Eventually, Swerve had checked every app on his datapad multiple times, and they weren’t updating. His games were all on a cool-down timer, and none of the personalities he was following were up this late to be posting. Swerve wouldn’t be up either if he had any say in it. Well… he did, sort of, but he just wasn’t tired. So, seeking something, _anything_ to help him wind his processors down so he could finally recharge, Swerve brought up the dating app he had downloaded.

It was the fourth dating app he had installed, but that was because the other three had been inactive. This was the only one that still had active members. _That_ was probably because it was the only one run by neutrals, so it didn’t require you to prove your faction and identity to join. That kind of thing scared off a lot of bots looking for an anonymous hookup.

Swerve wasn’t really interested in anonymity himself, but he’d take what he could get. He was just killing time and insomnia anyway, not actually _looking_ for someone.

The app chimed happily as it opened, but Swerve pushed the mute button on his datapad and cut it off. He scrolled through the usual lineup, but at first, only _Lost Light_ crewmembers came up. There was an unspoken rule aboard the ship that swiping up _or_ down on a fellow crewmember was just weird. Ultra Magnus _really_ didn’t want to deal with that kind of drama. Swerve kept scrolling.

_Please wait while Connex finds more prospex!_

Swerve’s finger paused. Rodimus’ profile image bumped the far left side of the screen underneath the little notification. Sighing, Swerve paged over to check another app or three while he waited. None of them had anything new going on, so after a few boring cycles through the apps he grumbled an switched back to Connex. By now, it had reached out across the intragalaxy network to load non-local ‘prospex’, so Swerve settled into the padding at his back and scrolled on past Rodimus.

There were a few names Swerve recognized as he scrolled by. Vortex had new pictures—but he was still a terrifying Decepticon, obviously, so Swerve swiped down for ‘no’. He swiped down a few Autobots, too, and swiped up on a few more, rolling his optics when he had to tap away a little pop-up confirming his swipe each time. A few neutrals, too, some of whom were pretty enough they earned a whistle. Up, down, down, up, up, down…

Swerve jumped half out of his plating and fumbled his datapad.

The minibot took a moment to cycle his vents, clutching the pad against his chest where he couldn’t see the screen. That was a grin he saw in his _nightmares._ What was a mech like _that_ doing on Connex?

Swerve’s spark was racing. He needed a drink. He muttered as much.

He struggled out of the berth, carelessly tossing his datapad aside onto the padding, and hopped to the floor. He crossed his suite to the coolant dispenser in the corner, mixed in some of the engex he kept on him _just in case,_ and padded back across the room. He leaned his hip against the edge of his berth and sipped at the drink to calm his frazzled systems. After a long moment he reached for his datapad, drew another deep vent cycle, and lifted it. A little pop-up blinked back at him.

_Message sent to Overlord_Luna2!_

Swerve shrieked.


	2. Back & Forth

Swerve frantically rubbed his spilled drink off of his datapad with a glass-polishing cloth. “No, no, no,” he chanted under his breath. “This can’t be happening. This _cannot_ be happening.”

He tossed the cloth over his shoulder in a practiced motion and, with shaking hands, he turned his datapad screen back on. Overlord’s pretty, terrifying mouth grinned back at him behind the little pop-up, and Swerve wished more than anything that there was an option to cancel his accidental swipe. He had one last chance of not becoming dead scrap metal in approximately the next instant. The shaking in his hands got worse. Swerve swallowed and cleared away the pop-up, then clicked through to Overlord’s Connex profile. He skimmed down until he found the biography section, and then underneath that, what he was looking for.

_Last active:_

Swerve shut his optics and took a moment, thanking Primus that Overlord had this setting toggled. Then he kept reading.

_Last active: over 100 stellar cycles ago._

Swerve stared. A quivering smile pulled onto his mouth. Overlord hadn’t used the app in so long it was reading the maximum possible time it was capable of displaying on a user’s profile. He probably never used it anymore. Too busy doing whatever murdery rogue Decepticon stuff it was that he did. Too busy to pay attention to a mis-swiping minibot on an old dating app.

“Thank you,” Swerve whispered, and he leaned his helm back to look at the ceiling through closed optic shutters and clutched the datapad to his chest once more. “Thank you Primus. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He closed the app, cleaned up the mess on his floor, resolved not to go on Connex at night anymore, and laid down to try and get some recharge.

* * *

Swerve didn’t recharge terribly well, but he felt better afterwards anyway. He went about his day more or less in good spirits. Every once in a while, he would feel that nagging little whisper in his head that told him Overlord was going to come after him… but he shook his head and shook it off, and tried to focus on his work. He still had a lot of things to unload and organize in the wake of the _Lost Light’s_ last supply run, from engex to additives to artistically shaped glasses. Swerve liked the ones shaped sort of like Earth’s conch shells the most, although it took some doing to figure out how to get them into a rack.

That kept him busy until it was time to open _Swerve’s_ up to the patrons of the night. And maybe it was the same as it always was, and maybe that gave Swerve a little too much time to think about things he shouldn’t be thinking about, but he struck up a conversation with Rewind and Chromedome and that chased his thoughts right off of that bad line of code.

But then it was time for the bar to close. After chasing Whirl out, Swerve locked the door, slumped against it, and exhaled heavily. Time to clean up, too.

In the quiet, Swerve’s thoughts again came back to his mistake the night before. He needed to check, but he knew it was a bad idea. He was going to be fine, and creeping Overlord’s profile wasn’t going to help him any. So he did his best to keep it out of his head—he put on the music and sang along, badly, and talked himself through the nightly checklist in between verses. But still, when he was done, he still felt that tenseness in his chest. He _needed_ to check.

Swerve took a moment to steady himself, then leaned against his counter and gently brought his datapad out of subspace. He pulled up Connex, where Overlord’s profile still reflected back at him, and waited for it to update. He held his breath.

_Last active: two megacycles ago._

And Swerve had two new message notifications.

Swerve’s horrified wailing immediately brought both Whirl and Minimus Ambus back to investigate.

* * *

Once Minimus had gotten through scolding Whirl for breaking down the door and part of the doorway in his rush to get into Swerve’s, he followed the pshawing helicopter across the room to see what was the matter with Swerve. The red mech had his head down on the bar countertop and was gripping it in one hand. The other clutched a datapad in a tight grip. His shoulders were shaking, and the closer Minimus got to him, the louder his fans seemed.

“You sound like ya broke somethin’, short stuff,” Whirl quipped. He slung himself onto the bar stool across from Swerve before Minimus even reached the counter.

Trying to conceal the twitch in his optic, Minimus ducked around the bar to stand beside Swerve. Should he put a hand on the mech’s shoulder? Deciding against it, he spoke up before Whirl could make the situation any worse.

“Swerve,” he said. “Is there something wrong?”

“I,” Swerve spluttered. He pushed himself off the counter and stared at his datapad like it was about to kill him. He looked abjectly terrified, Minimus thought. “Mins, I—I’ve made a horrible mistake.”

Minimus’ brow furrowed. He didn’t have to say anything—when Swerve looked up, he got the picture.

Laughing nervously, Swerve waved at his datapad with one hand. “I couldn’t sleep last night,” he said. “That’s normal, that’s—it’s fine, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. You should be more worried about—”

Swerve’s voice squeaked off. He rebooted it.

“Overlord.”

Minimus blinked. “I’m sorry, I fail to see the correlation.”

But Whirl—tall, long-necked mech that he was—could see the screen of Swerve’s datapad. And he got it. “Oh,” he crowed, and an unholy cackle erupted from his throat. _“Hah!_ You prank-swiped _Overlord?”_

(Okay, so he only sort of got it.)

“No!” Swerve squawked. He held the datapad protectively against his chest. “It was an accident! I dropped my pad and swiped him by accident! I swear!”

Minimus thought. Swerve might be _technically_ running an illicit bar that Minimus—and by extension, Ultra Magnus—let slide because it kept up the ship’s morale. He _may_ have caused quite a debacle with the ‘Swearth’ event. But Swerve wasn’t the type to goad dangerous Decepticons for no reason.

“I believe you, Swerve,” he decided, and he put his hand on Swerve’s arm in an attempt to be comforting. It felt awkward, but Swerve’s visor practically sparkled. Minimus soft-reset his vocalizer. “Use your better judgment. Overlord is a volatile threat, but I doubt he will pursue you over such a small thing.”

Swerve hesitated, but nodded. “Yeah… yeah. You’re probably right. Thanks, Mins.”

“Minimus.”

Swerve laughed.

“This is boring now,” Whirl huffed. “You made Overlord _boring,_ Minnie.”

Minimus glared at him.

* * *

_Ding!_

Overlord missed a step. He righted himself quickly, drawing up his HUD as he did so. At first, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. But then, just on the corner of his vision, was a notification—on some app called Connex, which he must have had on a datapad at some point, he had gotten a notification.

He tried, for a moment, to remember what the hell this app was. Then he shrugged and continued on. He'd figure that out in a moment. Right now, he had to deal with something rather more important.

Overlord strode into his mysterious benefactor’s council chambers.

* * *

_bar_tender invited you to chat!_

Overlord absently brushed a bit of gore off his thigh and peered at the little profile picture next to the notification. Some stranger's big, goofy grin filled much of the image, second only to a happily squinted visor. Two of the mech's fingers had also made it into the picture, making a ‘V’ gesture Overlord didn't recognize.

He frowned and tapped the notification. That brought up the conversation window, but Overlord left that as swiftly as he'd entered to investigate bar_tender's profile.

Aside from the main profile image, which he could see in better detail now, there was nothing much to look at. No more pictures—just a lengthy biography. Overlord arched a brow and hummed, pensive.

_Hi, Im Swerve! Autobot, Quest-lover and bartender extraordinaire!_

There was plenty to read after that, but it was all quite boring. So Overlord ignored it in favor of more interesting things—like the fact that this _Autobot_ apparently wanted to chat him up. And the fact that he hadn’t used this app since before his tenure at the Garrus 9 prison complex, which almost assuredly meant only the most desperate would be vying for his attention this way. After putting those facts together, this was certainly worth looking into. Finding and destroying Megatron could wait a little while longer, surely.

So, Overlord reopened the empty conversation with this Swerve mech. And he sent a message.

* * *

Swerve couldn’t just leave it alone. Of course not. He couldn’t just leave those little message notifications blinking away at him. He had to at least open them, even if he didn’t read them. But that was _all_ he had to do, right? Just open the conversation, and the notifications would go away. He didn’t have to give Overlord the time of day.

He sat back against the headboard of his berth and took a steadying breath. And he opened the conversation.

Aw, who was he kidding, Swerve was absolutely going to read this.

_Overlord_Luna2 accepted your invitation to connect!_

Right, Swerve thought. The first message was automated. Nothing to worry about.

But then, time-stamped a couple minutes later, was the first _real_ message. Either Overlord was a slow typer, or his connectivity wasn’t great wherever he was or… Swerve shook his head and tried to focus. It didn’t matter; he was just over-analyzing things again. What did it _say?_

_You're awfully brave, Autobot. Tell me about yourself._

Holy shit, Overlord himself thought Swerve was brave over a totally accidental swipe on a stupid dating app. Like Swerve hadn't been cowering like a newforged while Overlord lay waste to his bar just… however long ago that was, who was keeping track? And who cared! Overlord wanted to hear about Swerve!

For an instant rendered giddy, Swerve typed without thinking.

_Im that guy whos bar you totaled_

_Unless youve totaled more than one bar which you totally could have!_

_I mean if youre even the real Overlord, for all I know youre some catfisher_

And Swerve buried his face in his palms for a moment. God, he was so stupid.

When he lifted his face to look at the datapad again, Overlord was _actually typing._ Swerve made a sound vaguely like an abortive tea kettle, dropped his datapad beside him, and got up to pace. When he worked off the nervous energy (definitely not _terror,_ no, he was _just_ nervous thank you very much), he looked back at the datapad, spied the little colored message that meant Overlord had said something—and the nervous energy came back immediately. Swerve muffled a yell into his hands and forced himself back to the berth to read what Overlord had written.

_I’m afraid I don’t make note of the bars I destroy. I’m surprised you survived._

And as Swerve read, another message arrived—this time with an image attached. Swerve gulped and opened it. It took a moment to load, but then…

Overlord blew him a kiss from his datapad. _It’s a pleasant surprise, I assure you._

Swerve’s fans whirled to life. He wasn’t sure if he was flustered or just panicked beyond belief, because there was smoke rolling in the background of that image, and _Overlord_ looked like… like he wanted to _eat_ Swerve, or something. But nobody ever blew him kisses either, and especially not from a mouth that pretty. But even without audio that one moving image was definitely proof he was dealing with the real deal, and that alone was horrifying.

Swerve shuddered and slammed the datapad face-down on his side table. No thank you, he’d had quite enough of _that._

Leaving Overlord hanging was probably one of the worst ideas Swerve had ever had. But on the other hand, he was completely terrified. This had to be the worst thing that had ever happened to him—he had accidentally indicated an interest that he _did not have_ to one of his greatest fears!—so surely he could be forgiven a few horrible decisions in the wake of it. Right?

He just hoped and prayed Overlord wasn’t interested enough to pursue him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obviously, it wouldn't be much of a story if overlord were not interested enough to pursue swerve


	3. Tremors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i say this in the fondest way possible
> 
> jimothy boberts, your canon sucks

Overlord waited on tenterhooks for Swerve to respond to him. He stared at his own message, watching the view counter on the attached image stubbornly remain at the number 1. He closed the conversation. He opened it again, as though he might catch Swerve typing in reply. He didn’t.

He repeated this pattern several times.

Growling, Overlord tucked the datapad into his subspace and got up. He twisted into his space-faring, conjoined altmode and blasted out through the front main screen of the ship, letting the atmospheric decompression give him extra acceleration. He left the smoking, burning wreckage behind him and meandered his way past the planet below. Space travel was slow, but it gave him the time to cool down (even if his literal temperature slowly, negligibly climbed the longer he remained out of atmosphere).

Swerve was a self-described bartender. He likely had a busy schedule. That was fine. Overlord would just have to catch him on his breaks and free time.

But he was bored, damn it. And Swerve was a break from that boredom.

He figured that was the only reason he was so hung up on this mech he hadn’t even properly met yet. (He was wrong, naturally, but that comes later.)

Overlord made his way out to one of the planet’s moons. The place wasn’t populated, unlike the planet below, so he parked his aft right on the top of a mountain on the dark side. He fought the urge to bring out his datapad again, sprawling back in a false display of casual laziness, but that didn’t last very long. He gave in to the urge to check his conversation with Swerve again.

There was still nothing.

Overlord swore, to himself and to the empty blanket of silence around him. But then as he stared at the screen in disappointment, the view counter on the image he’d sent ticked upward. Overlord’s staring fixated on that spot, a couple of his internal systems stuttering to a standstill. His gaze darted sharply to the bottom of the screen when Swerve  _ finally _ began typing.

_ Wow haha thats not usually something people tell me _

And he  _ kept  _ typing. Pointlessly, Overlord held his vents.

_ I mean thank you? _

_ Youre very attractive and much much scarier in person _

_ Ive made a mistake Im sorry _

Rapidfire little messages. This mech typed like he wasn’t thinking before saying. And—Overlord frowned. He seemed to be shying away. Disappointment shot him through the spark. Like Pits was Overlord going to let Swerve just  _ drop _ him, if he had any say in the matter.

_ I’m flattered. But what do you mean, “mistake”? _

Swerve started typing back practically immediately.

_ I never meant to swipe you _

Overlord’s spark tightened. He didn’t have time to react because Swerve was still typing, in abortive little spurts and half-sentences.

_ I mean _

_ Its not like Im uh _

_ I mean Im sure youre great but Im scared out of my plating here!! _

There was another little pause. Overlord did his best to get his head screwed on straight and tried to process what this meant.

_ Youre waaaaay out of my league _

_ Ill just go _

Overlord stared at the words.  _ Obviously, _ he was out of any mech’s league. But he had decided this Swerve mech was worth getting to know, hadn’t he? That was  _ his _ decision, not—

_ Sorry, _ Swerve sent, and a second later Overlord’s screen filled with a notification.

_ This prospex has locked his account. Sorry! _

Overlord gaped in bewilderment.

* * *

Swerve wrung his hands. Hopefully,  _ hopefully, _ that placated Overlord enough not to try and come after him—hopefully that convinced him that Swerve was a little coward, not worth any effort or thought. It felt bad, to think about. Overlord had actually shown interest in him. No one else ever did that. That interest probably would have disintegrated the moment he learned anything more about Swerve, though, and that also sucked to think about. At least he was getting out before Overlord could think he’d been tricked or something and want revenge.

Either way, Swerve really,  _ really _ had to stop using Connex. Like, immediately. Before his spark collapsed from all the stress. (He should have left it alone the first time, but it had nagged at him, anxious thoughts spinning in circles in his head and keeping him awake.)

He uninstalled the app and had a drink to calm down. He managed not to spill it this time.

* * *

The next day at  _ Swerve’s _ was quieter. It was movie night, and Swerve kind of wished he had gone instead of staying to keep the bar open, but experience had taught him that watching old sparkeater movies in the dark surrounded by other mechs was not his idea of a good time. He didn’t want to deal with any more stress than he had to today.

Besides, there were a few mechs who had gladly taken up spots around the bar. Getaway sat alone, huddled in a corner booth and nursing a light drink that hadn’t half a chance of getting him pewtered if he tried. Sunstreaker and Drift took up a table by the wall, shoulder to shoulder, forehelms pressed gently together and fingers interlaced on the armrest of Sunstreaker’s powered chair between them—Swerve looked away to give them their privacy. It was nice to see Drift back again though, he thought, and nice to see Sunstreaker smiling for once.

Someone stepped in through the door.

Swerve looked up from polishing a glass to see Atomizer, who stopped to throw a look at Getaway. Getaway glanced up, but just as quickly he hunkered down in his seat and scowled into his drink, avoiding any optical contact with Atomizer. After a moment, Atomizer sighed and turned away to head for the bar counter. He cast an odd look at Drift on his way by, but only briefly.

“Hey Atomizer,” Swerve greeted, offering his most cheerful smile. “What can I get you?”

Atomizer planted himself on a stool and braced his elbows on the counter. “Whatever is the drink of the day,” he said. “And… an audial?”

“Coming right up,” Swerve assured him, patting the mech’s shoulder and then bustling around behind the counter to get him his drink. He set the drink and a straw in front of Atomizer in only a moment. “What’s the matter?”

Atomizer’s brow furrowed, and he dunked his straw into his drink and slotted it through his mask. “Have you ever thought you knew somebody, and thought they knew where the line was, but then you find out they don’t?”

Swerve blinked. “Uh,” he said. “I’m not sure I have. I mean, maybe I have, but what kind of line are we talking about here?”

Atomizer shook his head. “I’m an assassin, Swerve, but I won’t put innocent mechs at risk to further an agenda.” He slurped more of his drink through the straw.

Staring, visor wide and bright, Swerve nodded slowly. “I, uh, don’t think I’ve ever met somebody like that,” he said. “Maybe a Decepticon would do that. Never met an Autobot who would—not even that guy.” Swerve dropped his voice and subtly jerked a thumb towards Sunstreaker. “And he’s got a reputation, y’know?”

Atomizer snorted. “Yeah, I know.” He jabbed his straw into his drink, his own voice rising. “I  _ get  _ it, guy’s got personal problems—but there’s no excuse for what he wanted to do.” He ducked his head and sipped again. “I  _ was _ gonna help him, before he pulled out his endgame plan. No way.”

Swerve glanced up to see Getaway skulking out of the room without paying his tab. Hm.

He turned a sympathetic, albeit uncertain optic on Atomizer and patted his shoulder. “I’m sure you made the right choice,” he said. “If you want to talk about it, I’ll be here—I’m no therapist like Rung, but I am a bartender! That’s almost just as good, isn’t it?”

This time when Atomizer snorted, it was with laughter. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “Thanks, Swerve. You’re a real friend.”

Swerve gave Atomizer his biggest smile and poured him another drink.

* * *

Overlord most certainly was not moping. He definitely wasn’t dwelling on Swerve fleeing from him, and he absolutely wasn’t upset about that in the least.

He was used to mechs fleeing him. It was  _ fine. _ It was  _ normal. _ Swerve  _ should _ fear him.

...So why was he so shaken?

Overlord groaned and slumped onto the edge of his berth, leaning his helm back to drain the tension out of his neck cables. It did nothing for the tension in the rest of him—the tight curl of his fists, the snarl threatening at his lips. He threw himself back against the padding, bounced once, and settled to stare up at the ceiling.

This was bothering him. He could admit that much, at least.

Overlord shut his optics and rubbed one hand into his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. There had been a few mechs that bothered him this much before. It was always frustrating when a mech wasn’t interested in his advances, but this time… this time he hadn’t even managed to  _ make _ a proper advance. Swerve had cowed out after a few comments and one moving image capture. And he had seemed interested, despite the fear.

What was it he had said—that Overlord was very attractive and way out of his league? That definitely seemed like interest to Overlord… if self-deprecating, terrified interest.

Therein lay the problem, he supposed. It had been a long time since Overlord had taken the time to take a lover. And even when he’d done so more frequently, before Garrus 9, he hadn’t had many Autobots interested. Maybe whatever appeal was there was drowned out by his having been a deadly, high-ranking Decepticon with one hell of a kill count.

He was used to that being a point in his favor. It made sense that it might not be, in this case.

Still, he couldn’t allow himself to lose his edge like this. Overlord sat up and grabbed his datapad. He checked, and Swerve’s Connex profile was still locked. No big surprise—he closed the app and started digging through other files.

Star maps.

* * *

 

“And finally, the Galactic Council has experienced some unexpected losses,” Ultra Magnus reported. He cast a look at Rodimus, confirmed he was still—barely—listening, and returned his optics to the datapad he held. “Reports indicate they retrieved some badly injured Cybertronian from deep space and repaired him, but the Cybertronian betrayed them. The Galactic Council lost a survey ship, as well as two cities on the planet beneath, due to the ship’s crash. The Cybertronian in question has escaped under his own power and is at large—motives unknown.”

Rodimus groaned and kicked himself and his chair back upright, slumping over his desk.  _ “Great,” _ he said, and he pouted up at Magnus over his crossed forearms. “Now they’re just gonna be holding an even  _ bigger _ grudge. Who’s the mech who did it?”

Magnus pursed his lips slightly as he skimmed the report again. “The data does not indicate the Cybertronian’s identity, or even faction—only that he is quite large, armed, and dangerous.”

Rodimus huffed. “Well, how many big, dangerous mechs are out there?” he asked. He sat up a little straighter, which Magnus was quietly grateful for. “I mean, that we don’t have, uhh… ’counted for.”

“Accounted for.” Magnus pronounced the word much more carefully.

“Yeah, that.” Rodimus waved a hand. “Who, though?”

Ultra Magnus shook his head. “Keeping track of every Cybertronian was an impossible feat even during the war, Rodimus. With the chain of Decepticon command severed at the head, any number of them might be causing trouble that we may never hear about.”

Rodimus nodded, frowning. “But you think it’s a Decepticon?”

Ultra Magnus attempted to do something with the corners of his mouth. “Whirl is accounted for.”

Rodimus stared. It slowly dawned on him, and he burst into raucous laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey btw if you like swerve-centric aus please also go read my friend's fic, [Champion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16556480/chapters/38791310)!! it's very good i promise


	4. Hunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a REALLY good example of how much of the comics canon i've either wholesale tossed out or modified so thoroughly it's no longer recognizable. full list of changes so far at the bottom, to help y'all keep track

The star maps served as a decent enough starting point. Once Overlord knew roughly the area of space he'd found himself in—because after all, knowing the name of the backwater colony one had washed up and rented a room on wasn't much use if one had never heard of it before—he could cross-reference that against his chronometer, make a guess based on where he thought that Galactic Council ship had been going, and figure out roughly the area he'd just come from. From there, he searched up large ship sightings in the last time his chronometer was active, and found only two around that time. Perfect.

One was obviously the Galactic Council's ship, a while after Overlord's chronometer had given up the ghost. The one before that must then have been the ship he'd been kept prisoner on.

The _Lost Light._ Overlord decided he didn't like it much.

So, now he knew where he was and where he’d been. And if he wanted to avoid the _Lost Light_ in future—a resounding _yes;_ he especially wanted to avoid Chromedome and Rodimus—he had to figure out where it was going. Once he had that information, he could surely work out the Swerve issue.

He searched for the ship’s name. He found an article reporting the explosion of the ship and the resulting casualties. It had a headnote was edited in, reporting that the ship had later been seen fully functional in another corner of space and this article was now out of date. Overlord glossed past it to read the article anyway.

The crew, led by Rodimus (formerly a Prime), was seeking the Knights of Cybertron. Overlord snorted—that was a wild turbofox chase and a half. Unfortunately, knowing the _Lost Light_ was driven by seeking a myth didn’t give much of an idea where they were headed. He scrolled down the article, but stopped when he started seeing crew manifest portraits. They were rendered as an obituary, but that didn’t make it any more useful or compelling. Overlord closed the article—it didn’t have any more information he needed.

He supposed he would just have to keep an optic on where the _Lost Light_ was being spotted around the galaxy. He didn’t like it, but he had gone into plenty of situations without a plan of attack before now. It would be fine.

Now, he just had to find Swerve.

Overlord raised a hand to his helm and activated his comm. It rang for a while before the mech on the other picked up.

« What. »

“Black Shadow,” Overlord purred, in no way put off by his former colleague’s gruff tone. “I believe you owe me a little favor.”

* * *

Fortress Maximus stared down the disorganized gaggle of mechs—mostly Decepticons, but two Autobots as well. More notably, however, he recognized _three_ of them from his time in… his time as prison warden. Grimlock, who hadn’t said a thing, and who had kept his head down like a mech grieving; Scorponok, who looked as deadpan as ever; and Flame, who was staring right back at Fortress Maximus… unlike the rest of them.

Flame had his arms crossed defiantly across his chest, right beneath the space his insignia should have been. It looked like it had been sanded off.

At least the bunch had stopped freaking out about him shooting Demus, he reasoned. This wasn't going _terribly._

“Right. Now that I have your attention,” said Fortress Maximus.

“Whatever it is, we didn’t do it!” Misfire piped up. Maximus silenced him with a glare, and continued.

“Tell me who you are, and why _you’re_ here.”

There was a beat of silence. Maximus’ optic twitched. So did his trigger finger.

“We’re the Scavengers, and we were invited,” Krok finally said. He pushed Crankcase gently out of his way and stepped to the front of the group. “To be offered jobs, we thought.”

“Worried,” Crankcase interrupted.

Now Misfire chipped in. “And it’s SCAVENGERS.”

Maximus’ optics darted to Scorponok, whose mouth tightened under the scrutiny. “That's not exactly what I meant,” he said, and he looked at Flame now. “You three. I know who _you_ are.” He looked at the quiescent Grimlock as he shouldered his weapon. “You should be imprisoned at Garrus 9.” The name of the prison came out of his throat tight with a lingering strain, but everyone gently tried to ignore that. Maximus swallowed the tension and demanded, “So _why are you here?”_

“We were released,” said Flame. Scorponok shifted a little closer behind him; Flame put a hand on the bigger mech’s arm as he spoke. “After the, uh. You know. The Overlord thing.”

Maximus sucked in a sharp breath, grip tightening on his weapon. “Don't,” he said sharply.

Flame looked rightfully uneasy, glancing up at Scorponok anxiously. “The important thing is they let us go,” he said. “Then the DJD found us on the, uh, the escort ship. We bailed, and _they_ picked us up.” Flame gestured at Krok. “Ask them.”

Misfire nodded. “It's true,” he said. “We found them together.”

Crankcase confirmed it as well with a nod.

Maximus squinted suspiciously at them. “The DJD.”

“I overthrew Megatron once, early in the war,” Scorponok offered in explanation. “It… wasn't appreciated.”

Maximus supposed that made sense. “Fine then. But,” he said, “none of that explains why the lot of you are here now,” he gestured behind him, “in the junkyard of a slaver working for the Grand Architect.”

“I told you, we were invited,” said Krok.

“Who's the Grand Architect?” Crankcase asked.

“Sounds pretentious.” Misfire, this time. Maximus was having a little bit of trouble keeping up.

“The Grand Architect is a threat,” Maximus said simply. “Think carefully how you answer this next question, because _that_ will decide how you’re leaving.”

“Wait, I wasn't paying attention. Why are we here again?” Spinister cut in.

Crankcase turned to give Spinister a hushed explanation. Fortress Maximus cut him off, snapping, “Why were you invited here?”

Silence.

Krok shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

Maximus growled. “That’s it. You’re under arrest.”

He lunged.

The Scavengers split.

Maximus crashed headlong into Scorponok.

Flame discreetly tucked the offending pede behind his other calf.

“Let go of me,” Maximus growled. He shoved himself off of Scorponok, who held his hands up in front of himself to reject any blame. Maximus glared and charged out after the Scavengers, leaving Scorponok, Flame, and Grimlock alone with Demus’ corpse.

Flame spoke up after a moment. “Let’s go back to the ship.”

“You lied to him,” Scorponok replied, following Flame out. Grimlock brought up the rear.

“Yeah,” said Flame. While the Scavengers _had_ been the ones who found him and Scorponok when they fled into space to escape the DJD, it had been Overlord himself that freed the two of them. And Grimlock hadn’t been with them at the time, so who knew how he actually got out. But whatever. Flame shrugged. “You think he bought it?”

“He didn’t try to arrest us.”

“That’s true.”

* * *

Swerve was quickly beginning to remember why he had looked into Connex in the first place.

The _Lost Light_ was a great place to live. It really was. The people were wonderful, and Swerve only felt the nagging, invasive thought that they found him unforgivably annoying _some_ of the time. _Swerve’s_ was a dream. The ship in general was just big enough not to feel stuffy or claustrophobic without sacrificing its coziness.

But in between the terrifying adventures they were prone to getting into, space travel in general was just _boring._

Swerve closed down the bar and waved everyone out. He went through his end-of-the night routine on autopilot. Clean this, put this away, check on the status of any outstanding bar tabs. Minimus Ambus, surprisingly, had an unpaid balance tonight—after escorting an utterly smashed and sobbing Whirl back to his quarters, he must not have been able to get back in time. Minimus never came to _Swerve’s_ once it had reached the ‘one half-megacycle before closing’ mark.

Swerve wondered if there was anything up with those two. He’d seen them together more often lately.

But idle gossip just wasn’t enough of a distraction. Swerve was still bored, intensely understimulated, and wishing for some kind of excitement. Overlord was too much excitement by far, of course; Swerve still preferred boredom to that kind of abject panic and terror. But the stars were always brighter on the other side of the spacebridge. He did wonder every once in a while if he could have turned that situation around to something a little more exciting than it was frightening.

But then he remembered how destructive and unpredictable Overlord was and had to chastise himself for it. Playing with a mech like that was practically begging to meet Primus face to face.

Swerve locked up the bar behind him and shuffled back to his quarters. On his way, he spotted a couple of other mechs staggering home themselves, and considered instating a rule about how late he’d continue selling stronger drinks. Minimus liked rules—surely he’d support the decision.

Humming softly, Swerve made it back to his quarters and went inside. He shut the door, locked it behind himself, and looked around at the cluttered interior. And he sighed heavily.

Swerve crossed the room and set up his datapad on the side table. He turned on a motivating playlist, made sure it wasn’t playing too loud, and proceeded to bop around the room and tidy it up. By the time he was done, the place still looked lived-in, but it had gone from being a little bit sloppy to being kitschy and cozy. Well, aside from the stuff shoved under the unused berth, but who cared about _that?_

Swerve looked around the cleaner-looking room and frowned. He was still hellaciously bored.

The minibot flopped onto his berth and grabbed his datapad. Boredom like _this_ usually meant he was getting lonely. There was a solution to that, he thought, as he scrolled through his list of pen-pals. He landed on one he’d met a long time back on some neutral colony—one named Misfire. Misfire was the kind of mech who caught you up in his excitement and made you forget about pretty much everything but having fun in the moment. He would be _perfect_ to talk to right about now.

Of course, Swerve didn’t know if Misfire would be free right now. Misfire had _said_ to _‘comm any time you want’,_ but schedule drift got to even the best of friends when they hadn’t been in contact in a long enough time. Misfire was a friend, but a distant one. Erring on the side of caution, Swerve sent him an email instead.

He puttered around his quarters for a bit. Misfire hadn’t gotten back to him by the time he was ready for recharge, which was disappointing, but maybe he’d hear something back in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the list of my changes made to the canon:
> 
> REVEALED IN PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: 
>   1. atomizer refused to work with getaway when getaway revealed that he wanted to get rid of megatron by putting an autobot in danger. that plotline is thus terminated early
>   2. overlord was picked up out of deep space and repaired earlier, and rejected the galactic council's 'offer of employment'—with destructive consequences for them
> REVEALED THIS CHAPTER: 
>   3. black shadow is alive (he escaped from the djd, badly damaged but functional)
>   4. the scavengers found scorponok and flame instead of flywheels. neither of them died in the encounter with the djd because of superior firepower to flywheels'
>   5. grimlock's backstory between garrus 9 and being picked up by the scavengers as well is different. i'll explain it in a future chapter
>   6. the grand architect is a wholly different beast here than in canon, so don't think you know where that's going. because you don't. that's another thing i'll be explaining later on
>   7. swerve and misfire met a long time back on a neutral colony that makes visitors cover up any insignias to avoid fights (so they didn't realize they were on opposite sides)
> 



	5. Old Friends

“Tarn,” Helex yelled.His voice echoed through the _Peaceful Tyranny._ “You’d better come look at this!”

Sighing, Tarn pulled himself back into his root mode one last time and rolled his neck. He strode out of his quarters, down the hall, and to the bridge, where the rest of his team—save for Nickel—had gathered together to huddle around the radar screen.

“What is it?” he asked. “I was in the middle of something important.”

Kaon answered him. “We’ve… picked up Overlord’s spark signal.”

Tarn blinked. “Come again?”

“I know, I know,” said Kaon. “We cut his head off. He shouldn’t be alive. But his signal is active.”

 _“Slippery little bitch,”_ Vos spat.

Tarn nudged Tesarus aside to look over Helex’s shoulder at the screen. Sure enough, Overlord’s precise spark signal was on the move through space on the edges of their scanning range. He frowned behind the mask, tapping one claw at its edge. “Follow that signal,” he said. “Whatever it’s coming from, we need to destroy it—whether it is Overlord, or something else, doesn’t matter for now.” His voice shifted lower, just slightly, just enough that his team felt the hunter’s edge in their sparks. “I want that signal _extinguished.”_

* * *

Fortress Maximus stood, panting, surrounded by roboids. The Scavengers peeked over piles of junk at him. He was covered in darts and leaning on his own knees to keep himself upright. There was a bird-shaped roboid perched on his head, right between his sensory antennae.

“Can we go now?” Fulcrum called. “We haven’t even done anything.”

“I can’t prove,” Maximus started, and he swayed upright, panting. “That you all… have nothing to do… with the Grand Architect.” He glared up at Fulcrum and wondered when (and _how)_ he had lost his gun. “And you seem to think it’s _fun,”_ he paused, gasping air, “to joke about it!”

“I meant it when I said we didn’t know why we were invited here,” Krok protested. “Really. Misfire is just an asshole.”

(“Hey!” Misfire cried. “So are you!”)

Maximus swayed a little to find surer footing. “And you’re sure your other friends don’t know either?”

“They’d never even _heard_ of Demus before.” Crankcase scowled. “And _none_ of us knows who this ‘Grand Architect’ is.”

“Fine,” Maximus huffed. “Fine! Let's say I believe you, and I let you go. What lead am I left with?”

“The roboids,” said Spinister.

Everyone looked at him, some confused, others merely surprised that he seemed to be paying attention for once. “Spinister, they've been lobotomized,” Krok said. “The enforcer said so.”

“What? No, that’s easy to fix,” said Spinister.

He began explaining the process, gesticulating wildly, and the others stared at him, dumbfounded. Most of what he said went completely over everyone else’s heads. Spinister’s genius was as startling to witness as ever. Disbelieving, but hopeful, Maximus recorded the whole thing.

“Then you put the braincap back on, and you’re done,” Spinister finished. “Oh, but you have to make sure you don’t leave anything in there. Can _we_ leave? I want to play _Shoot Shoot Bang Bang_ too, and I don’t have my gun.”

“Er, yeah. You can go,” said Maximus.

After a brief scramble where Spinister and Misfire each tried to go the wrong way—and in completely different directions—the Scavengers walked back to their ship.

The roboid on Maximus’ head made a beeping chirrup sound.

* * *

Swerve’s datapad chimed. Startled, he flung his polishing cloth over the edge of the bar countertop by accident. Wheezing a laugh, he scampered around to grab it off the floor, then checked his datapad.

_Hi Swerve! I got your email, long time no…_

Grinning, Swerve tapped on the text notification to open the message from Misfire. The bar was more than ready to open up a few hours from now, so he could definitely waste some time yakking with a friend. There wasn’t much to the text—Misfire mentioned he was free for the next few megacycles, and Swerve could comm whenever he was.

So, he commed.

Misfire answered quickly. « Hey, Swerve! » he greeted. « How’ve you been? »

“Fine, fine!” Swerve replied. He moseyed into the back room of _Swerve’s_ to inspect his stock, just for something to do with his hands while he talked to Misfire. “Just spotted you in my contacts and figured I should look you up. What’s up?”

« Oh, man. That’s a _long_ story.” Misfire laughed. “Where do I start? »

“At the beginning?” Swerve supplied.

« Hah! Probably a good idea, you’re right, » said Misfire. And he really _did_ start at the beginning. The _very_ beginning. « So, you know how after Vorn kicked us both out of that club on the colony… »

He rambled for a bit, describing the drunken adventure the two had gone on after being kicked out of that club, but eventually a laughing Swerve had to cut him off. “Misfire!” he exclaimed. “We haven’t talked in ages, and I know this part—I was there! Pick out the good bits?”

« I’m getting to one, I’m getting to one! » Misfire insisted. « That mech we met at the fountain, with the orange? You remember him?”

“Oh, yeah!” Swerve nodded. “I remember!”

« Well, turns out he ended up in—get this— _Garrus 9. »_ Misfire paused for effect. (In that silence, Swerve tried not to think about who else was involved with Garrus 9 once.) « But he’s an Autobot! That place was supposed to be full of Decepticons, wasn’t it? So weird. »

“Huh.”

« But he got out, right? So now he’s on _our_ ship. »

“Weird!” Swerve agreed. “Small galaxy, huh?”

« Right? » There was a creaking sound, like a door opening or a chair rocking backwards. « He’s cute, y’know. »

Swerve blinked. “Is he?”

« Yeah, » Misfire sighed, sounding dreamy. « There was another guy with him, too. Real big guy, got cute antennas. » There was another flutter of noise, and Misfire yelped.

Swerve felt a jolt of panic. “Misfire? Are you okay?”

« I’m fine, I’m okay! » Misfire made a scrambling noise. « Fell off my chair, I’m fine. What was I saying? »

Swerve laughed, relieved. “You were waxing poetic about that guy we met the time we got drunk together and the other mech you picked up with him?”

« Oh, yeah! » The excitement in Misfire’s voice was palpable. « The big guy, he’s _really_ big, like—pick-you-up-in-one-hand big. And the orange guy’s real warm. One time he put his hand on my shoulder and I swear it warmed up my whole body.”

Swerve giggled. “Misfire, buddy, I think that just means you’re in love.”

« I’m not kidding! He’s _really_ warm! » Misfire insisted. « But, I mean… yeah. I think you’re right, Swerve. Gosh… I can’t believe I’m in love with a couple o’ nerds we picked up in the middle of nowhere. »

“Aw, I don’t blame you,” Swerve said. “Really! They sound nice. What kind of nerds are they?”

« They both do science! » Misfire exclaimed. « The orange guy is, like, a spark doctor, too? So I don’t understand most of the stuff they talk about when they get all scientific, but it’s really hot that they’re so super smart like that. I _totally_ think they’re gonna figure out something groundbreaking. »

Another voice echoed over the line suddenly. Someone telling Misfire to go tell them already—Swerve didn’t catch all of the words.

« I will later, Cranks! Geeze! » Misfire said back. « Anyway Swerve, that’s enough about _my_ love life. How’s yours? »

Swerve blanched. “Oh, uh. Well, that’s a funny story,” he said, laughing nervously. “I, uh. I’m not interested in anyone. I _did_ swipe somebody on Connex by accident recently, but…”

He could practically _feel_ Misfire leaning forward to stare at him across space. _« But? »_

“Well, uh, I think he was interested?” Swerve admitted. “Which is weird, because I’m, uh. I’m not exactly most mech’s idea of a catch! Which is fine! Buuuut this mech was a super scary one, so I had to tell him no. Well, more or less.”

« Aw, c’mon Swerve! » Misfire protested. « You never know unless you try! Maybe you’re perfect for each other! »

“I really doubt it,” said Swerve. “Sometimes I have nightmares about that mech. Have for a long time.”

« Oh, yeah. I get you. » A sympathetic edge came over Misfire’s tone. He was quick to change the subject—Swerve was beyond thankful for the distraction.

* * *

Rodimus stared at the ceiling, frowning deeply and tapping his thigh with the fingers of one hand. He was listening to Ultra Magnus giving another report—and, somewhat less than true to form, he was paying close attention. The situation with the Galactic Council was starting to get him worried.

“So, in summary,” Ultra Magnus concluded, “our mystery Cybertronian seems to have been the catalyst for a renewed wave of anti-mechanoid sentiment among the Galactic Council and their allied worlds. Seemingly in response to this, they’ve formed a truce with the Black Block Consortia, and the two have begun moving ships toward the corner of space Fortress Maximus suspects holds the base of operations for the Grand Architect.” Ultra Magnus scowled. “None of this information bodes well.”

Rodimus sat upright. “I didn’t pay attention the last time,” he admitted. “But I am now! Remind me who this Grand Architect is?”

Ultra Magnus shook his head. “Fortress Maximus hasn’t provided all the details—likely to reduce the risk of his mission being thwarted by outside agents. But, based on a communication he intercepted several quartexes ago, he believes this architect to be a threat to all Cybertronians.”

Rodimus hummed thoughtfully—then suddenly got struck by inspiration. “Hey, what if this Grand Architect is the one that destroyed that Galactic Council ship?” he suggested. “Maybe they’ll all take each other out, and we won’t have to worry about it!”

“Perhaps,” said Magnus. “But I do not believe we should eliminate the possibility that they may all be allies. We should contact Cybertron and ensure they are aware of this potential threat.”

Rodimus leaned back in his chair again, just a little. “You said Fort Max wanted to keep the risk of mission-thwarting down, right?”

Magnus squinted slightly. “I did.”

“So, that means I should probably not be opening a comm all the way back to Cybertron, right?” Rodimus suggested. “Probably why Fort Max didn’t. So I should go to Cybertron myself with all the info we’ve got and talk to Starscream directly. He’ll listen to me, and you and, uh… you and Megatron can handle the _Lost Light_ while I’m gone.”

“That’s… very responsible of you, Rodimus,” Magnus admitted. “And your assumption is correct. Megatron and I are perfectly capable of managing the ship while you are away. However, there is one critical flaw in your plan.”

Rodimus pouted. “What? What flaw?”

“We are lightyears away from Cybertron, and we do not possess a shuttlecraft with engines that can travel faster than lightspeed. The _Lost Light_ itself is our only vessel capable of making the journey.”

Rodimus’ grin was nearly blinding. “That’s where you’re wrong!” He shot his trademark finger pistols at Ultra Magnus. “I’ve had Brainstorm and Perceptor doing upgrades on the Rodpod. It _can_ go that fast.”

Magnus did his best to hold in the twitching of his optic. “Very well then, Rodimus, I have no further objections. But I must insist you bring a company of trusted crewmembers with you for backup.”

“Backup? Why would I need backup?”

“I sincerely hope you won’t,” said Magnus. “But the galaxy is not currently a safe place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a genuine over-arching plot as well as side-romances? in _my_ crackship slowburn longfic? it's more likely than you think!


	6. Contrasting Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for a violent nightmare in this chapter. not terribly graphic, as it's a dream sequence

Flame was flying the  _ Weak Anthropic Principle _ today, both to give Crankcase a bit of a break and to get away from all the noisy goings-on happening in the rest of the ship. It was something Flame was certain he would never get used to. Scorponok had, but he was also perfectly content to stand behind his conjunx in the cockpit of the ship and look out at the stars while Flame navigated. This quiet, peaceful time between them was nice—second only to quiet, peaceful time in the berth to rest and cuddle, and to quiet, peaceful time in the laboratory (their very own, constructed in a once-empty, cleared-out storage area) to explore supposedly immoral avenues of scientific exploration. Either of those options would be the perfect honeymoon, really.

But, as much as they might prefer to be snuggling or exploring the boundaries of scientific possibility instead, here they were in the ship’s cockpit. It was quiet and peaceful, at least—nothing appeared on the scanners.

Flame angled the  _ Weak Anthropic Principle _ around a nearby asteroid belt and headed for the planet on the other side. It was getting to be about time to stick it into orbit and get some recharge.

“Turning in for the night?” Scorponok murmured, gently resting one hand atop one of Flame’s shoulder cables.

Flame shrugged the opposite shoulder and nuzzled that giant claw. “Even I need to recharge eventually. This is as good a place as any.”

But then all thoughts of recharge vanished when the pair caught sight of something outside.

Out of the sky around the planet grew a looming shape. At first, it appeared to be a moon—but as they grew closer, the pair realized there were ships circling it in slow, patrolling orbits, sharp-looking protrusions coming from the front, and an enormous Decepticon insignia engraved on the front. But most stunning of all, beneath that insignia was a vast expanse of curved glass, darkened against the unfiltered UV radiation of space so that it glinted like a mech’s threatening visor.

“Thaaaat’s a warworld,” said Scorponok. He leaned over Flame’s seat, supporting himself with one hand pressed against the arm of it, and squinted.

Flame reset his frozen vocalizer. “Yup.”

After a moment, Scorponok leaned back again. “Krok!” he hollered. “Do we need to resupply?”

There was a clatter. Krok tripped into the cockpit. “What? Yes,” he said. “Spinister lit all our bandaging mesh on fire somehow last quartex, and we could do with more fuel. Why?”

Flame silently pointed outside, since Scorponok couldn’t do that with his own hands.

Krok tilted his head. “Oh,” he said. “Okay, yeah.” He edged around Scorponok, flopped into the seat next to Flame, and switched on the ship’s comm. “This is Krok of the  _ Weak Anthropic Principle _ hailing unknown warworld,” he said into it. “Requesting permission to dock to exchange supplies.”

“Whoa,” Scorponok protested. “I was going to ask if it was worth risking it.”

Krok looked him in the face. “We’re low on fuel,” he insisted.

The other end of the comm crackled to life. « This is Lyzack of the Omega-Niner-Sigma warworld, commanded by Dezsarus, » said a pleasant voice. « Permission granted,  _ Weak Anthropic Principle. _ You may dock your ship on the lower flightdeck. »

* * *

“Damn it, Magnus, if I’m going to see Starscream my team needs to have a coherent style,” said Rodimus. “For, uh, diplomatic reasons. And that’s  _ final.” _

Ultra Magnus steepled his fingers. “You think that justifies recruiting Atomizer, who—might I remind you—has admitted in a  _ detailed report _ that he nearly participated in a budding coup to remove you from the captaincy.”

“He owned up to it and didn’t follow through! So it’s fine!” Rodimus argued. “He’s one of the best-looking mechs on this ship,  _ and _ he’s handy with a bow. Besides, as long as I’ve got Drift along it’ll be fine, Magnus. Really.”

Magnus exhaled a slow vent. “You’re not thinking reasonably about this.”

Rodimus put a hand on Magnus’ arm. “Look, Mags, I’d bring  _ you _ along if I could. But I need you here to keep an optic on Megatron more than I need you watching my aft. Okay? We'll be fine.”

No matter how many times Rodimus said it, Ultra Magnus couldn't shake the fear that he was wrong. Bringing only two mechs for backup, one of whom was Atomizer, was unwise at best. Ultra Magnus  _ knew _ Rodimus could handle himself, but he worried nonetheless.

“Promise you will contact the  _ Lost Light _ for backup if you need it.”

“I will, if you're still closer than Cybertron,” Rodimus assured. “Or if Cybertron isn’t safe. Or if I know I'm gonna do something stupid and I need you to talk me out of it. Promise.”

Ultra Magnus  _ almost _ smiled.

* * *

These dreams were always the same. The setting changed, and the people changed, but the  _ situation… _ No, Overlord couldn’t remember a time his dreams had ever ended differently.

He couldn’t wake up, so he went through the motions. He crushed the head of the highest ranking councilmember on the ship. The others screamed—they tried to flee. Overlord was not merciful. The endless swathes of them fell, bloodied and broken, all around him. There was a  _ rush, _ the adrenaline of the fight, the power and sadism that urged him on. Kill this one, sling his limp form at the next and watch her trip and fall under the body of a fallen comrade. Her chest squelched under his pede as he strode on. On and on, through the sea of blood and bodies.

And there, at the end of it, was  _ Megatron. _

Overlord tried. He really tried. He always tried, always prayed that this time would be different somehow. But Megatron swatted him aside as easily as he had in the pits, as easily as he  _ always _ did. He stood above Overlord and the rush of fear came hard and fast and the pain came harder, faster, and the Galactic Council—bloodied corpses, shredded faces—stared down at him and  _ laughed. _

Overlord rolled off the berth and landed on hands and knees, heaving. He crumpled, pressed himself into the floor, and clutched at his helm and face. He stayed there, a pathetic lump of shivering metal, until he’d finally convinced himself that Megatron wasn’t really here.

He crawled ungracefully back onto his berth and collapsed again.

His spark ached, fluttering weakly in his chest like a hunted pair of glitchmice. Overlord struggled to breathe evenly, to calm his frantic systems. Eventually his spark rejoined with itself and stabilized, and the ache of panic went down.

_ Damn him. _

He couldn’t keep flitting between Cybertronian colony worlds like a panicked little fugitive. It was too easy to track him—until now, in this moment of terrible fear, he hadn’t given it any consideration. What was he  _ doing, _ wandering around the galaxy aimlessly, waiting for Black Shadow to give him a lead on some Autobot he wanted to chase? The Justice Division was certainly going to find him, and then… then every time that Megatron had beaten him would be all that he had left in the afterspark.

Overlord dragged his palms down his face and fought for steady breath again.

Where  _ was _ Megatron? Where was Tarn’s little band of murderers? Where was Swerve?

Where was  _ Overlord? _ Where had this fearful creature come from to replace him?

The same place it always came from, he supposed.

Overlord slowly got up. He stepped carefully to the window and stared out into the dense nebula outside.

* * *

Swerve was having a  _ great _ time. Being in contact with Misfire again was doing wonders for his mood. The other mech had informed Swerve that he and his crew were setting down somewhere to resupply, so he’d be non-responsive for a while. But that was fine—it just gave Swerve time to spend with Skids when he invited Swerve to join him at movie night.

He gently bumped his shoulder against Skids’ upper arm. “Hey,” he whispered. Even if they were at the side of the room, where no one would be listening to them, Swerve didn't want to interrupt the romcom playing on the projector.  “Look—at Magnus.”

Skids looked. Swerve looked up at him, stifling a giggle when Skids’ optics blew wide open.

“Whoa,” he said, just as hushed as Swerve.

Earlier in the night, Whirl had come in to the movie a little bit late. There were no seats left, so he’d flopped his gangly self into Ultra Magnus’ lap with a brash word or three. Magnus had protested the propriety of such a thing, as well as Whirl's tardiness, but Rewind had shushed them. The movie's intro had begun playing then, and no one paid any more attention to Ultra Magnus and Whirl.

Except for now, when Swerve had curiously glanced over to discover that Ultra Magnus was practically cradling the ’copter.

The SIC's face was every bit as impassive as always. There was really no way to tell what he thought about this seating arrangement, but he certainly didn't seem to  _ hate _ it, which was a good sign. His hand had even settled on Whirl's hip, the arm around him keeping Whirl from slipping out of place. And Whirl, for his part, actually looked  _ relaxed _ —still and calm, leaned cozily against the broad chest of the Magnus armor.

Maybe they were just engrossed in the movie, but Swerve didn't think so. He grinned at Skids. “When do you think we should expect the announcement?”

Skids snickered. “Maybe a hundred stellar cycles,” he said. “You know how Minimus is. How should I call it…  _ emotionally constipated?” _

Swerve smothered a giggle into his hands. Just then, Whirl looked over in their direction—spark flaring in sudden anxiety, Swerve pretended he’d been giggling at the movie. When he glanced up again a moment later, Whirl was staring at the screen again. Swerve sagged in relief.

They just watched the movie for a little while, chuckling at the main characters’ antics. Eventually though, Skids spoke up again. “Y’know, they’re not the only ones who have been getting more lovey-dovey lately.”

“Hm?” Swerve blinked at him. “Who else?”

Swerve grinned. He glanced conspiratorially to the front of the room, then whispered, barely audibly. “I’ve noticed our captain mooning about an awful more lately. I haven’t cracked it yet, but there’s definitely  _ somebody.” _

“With Rodimus?” Swerve gasped, astonished. “Or—?”

“No, I mean Rodimus,” Skids confirmed.

“Wow. Lucky mech.”

Skids shrugged. “Better him than me, right?”

The pair laughed. Unfortunately, their laughter came during a quiet, romantic part of the film. Rewind shushed them, and on threat of being kicked out of the room altogether, they shut up and watched the movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is so much going ON in this chapter… but setting up the plot necessitates it. the next few chapters will focus on smaller portions of the cast each for a little while (and don't worry, everything happening here DOES eventually come around to overlord and swerve. just wait and see!)


	7. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i seriously posting two chapters in one day???? apparently yes!! i hope you like the scavengers and warworlders

The Scavengers shuffled out onto the flight deck of the warworld. Krok took the lead, with Fulcrum and Spinister right behind him. Crankcase hung back with Scorponok and Flame—and way, _way_ at the back of the group, Misfire coaxed Grimlock out of the ship. Once Grimlock spotted the various large beastformers milling about the flight deck, he perked up slightly and ambled along behind the others with much less need for convincing. Misfire sighed in relief, got distracted for a moment staring around at all the sharply-formed warworld mechs, and then scampered to catch up.

Ahead of them, the biggest beastformer Krok had ever seen stepped out through the massive door at the head of the flightdeck. He was flanked by two other mechs, one who might’ve actually been a greenish jet, and the other a woman with beastformer kibble similar to the big mech’s own.

Krok stopped short in alarm. The other Scavengers piled up behind him, with much squawking.

The big beastformer laughed as he strode up to meet them, wings flicking in obvious amusement. “Krok, is it?” he greeted. He opened his arms in welcome and made no motion to adjust for Krok’s much smaller size. “I’m Dezsarus, and these are two of my lieutenants, Esmeral and Leozack.” He indicated each as he spoke, and grinned. Everything about him was sharp, but especially that grin. “Welcome to my warworld.”

“Uh,” said Krok. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thanks for having us.”

“Do you have another face on your face?” Spinister asked.

Krok cringed, but Dezsarus merely snorted. “Of a sort,” he said. “You are?”

“Spinister.”

“And I’m Fulcrum,” chimed the mech in question, waving. “Hi.”

Dezsarus looked at him curiously for a second, then shook his head and turned expectantly to the next mech down the line. And so it went until finally Misfire had introduced both himself and the ever-quiet Grimlock.

Dezsarus waved a small gesture at Leozack. Immediately, Leozack blatantly lifted a datapad from subspace in full view and began searching through it.

“So,” said Dezsarus, with a charming, deadly smile. The optics on his face stayed locked on Krok— but the upper pair darted between all of the Scavengers, keeping them under careful watch. “What brings you all to this area of space?”

Krok floundered. That was one hell of a barbed question. “We don’t have any particular course in mind…” he started, and faltered. They had stumbled onto this warworld by accident, but was that a safe answer?

For once, thankfully, Grimlock actually spoke up. “We’re looking for my brothers.”

While the Scavengers looked startled at Grimlock’s sudden speech, Dezsarus merely hummed thoughtfully, and nodded once.

“I understand,” he said. His wings folded down, and only then did the Scavengers collectively realize he had spread them to increase his intimidation factor. “If there’s anything my crew can do to help you find them, please let us know. No mech should be separated from family.”

“Speaking of family,” called a voice from above. The Scavengers looked up— _way_ up, to the second flightdeck—just in time for a blue mech to crash out of the sky and tackle Fulcrum.

Fulcrum yelped, staggered, and clutched at the attacking mech’s plating. “Dad‽”

“Fulcrum!” the mech cried, his rotors fluttering excitedly. “I can’t believe this!”

The Scavengers, now confused instead of startled, relaxed. Krok pushed Spinister’s gun down.

“Let him breathe, Bacchus,” said another winged mech—this one taller than Bacchus, but shorter than Dezsarus, and painted mainly in a glossy black—as he joined the group much more sedately. He made no attempt to haul his partner off of Fulcrum, instead opting to put a hand on the poor mech’s back. “I’m surprised Dez didn’t holler for us the second he saw you.”

“I… didn’t even recognize him,” Dezsarus admitted, sounding aghast with himself. “I _wondered,_ but without his wings…” He stepped forward and briefly hugged both Fulcrum and Bacchus both. “Welcome _home,_ Fulcrum.”

“Where have you _been?”_ Bacchus demanded. He finally let go of his tight clinging and grasped Fulcrum by the shoulders to look him over. “We were worried _sick!”_

“I, uh.” Fulcrum offered a sheepish grin. He looked around nervously, avoiding putting his optics on Leozack. “It’s a long story?”

“Got plenty of time, kid,” the black jet said. He looked over the other Scavengers, optics lingering a suspiciously long time on Misfire. “Why don’t you all come inside and have a drink.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

Black Shadow didn’t _do_ suggestions.

Krok straightened and knocked off a sloppy salute. “Yessir.”

* * *

Along the way, Dezsarus properly introduced his two associates. The mech called Bacchus was actually _Blue_ Bacchus, the scariest sniper any of the Scavengers had ever heard about from their own side of the war. Misfire was awestruck. And Black Shadow, well—everyone knew _him._

Dezsarus ushered the Scavengers into a large, comfortable meeting room and sent his lieutenants away to their duties. He directed Scorponok and Grimlock to the bigger chairs at one end of the rough, oval-shaped table, and took up the other side himself—Black Shadow and Blue Bacchus stood on either side next to him. While the Scavengers found seats, Fulcrum and Krok nearest to the head of the table, Dezsarus stretched out his wings and curled them loosely around the pair of gangsters.

“Before we get down to the business of trade,” Dezsarus said, steepling his fingers, “there are a few things I’d like to talk about. Namely, how you made it into this area without being noticed, why you have our son on board your ship, why he’s been reformatted, and why I’ve never heard of you supposedly notorious criminals.” He smiled, faux pleasantly.

Misfire leaned over the table slightly and raised his hand. “You’ve never heard of us because we’re just _that_ famous,” he said.

Dezsarus rolled his lower pair of optics and glanced at Black Shadow with the others. Black Shadow met his gaze and nodded.

“Misfire, everyone knows you lot vandalized your own Autopedia entries,” he said.

“Wait,” said Blue Bacchus. “They did?”

Black Shadow reached over Dezsarus and gently shoved Blue Bacchus in the shoulder. “Leozack sent Lyzack their names, and she checked the edit history on our way here,” he said. “Turn your comm on.”

“Ow,” Bacchus said, pouting overdramatically. This time Black Shadow was the one rolling his optics.

Around the table, Grimlock and Fulcrum looked at each other wordlessly—they’d been expecting their teammates to get found out sooner or later. Scorponok was struggling not to laugh, since Flame had promptly retrieved a datapad to show him the vandalized Autopedia pages in question. The other half of the Scavengers were looking more than a little bit nervous.

Dezsarus sighed. “I’m going to assume that very few of you are actual threats to the security of my warworld.”

“They’re not,” said Fulcrum. “Trust me.”

“I do.” Dezsarus drew in his wings and leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on the table. “So, about how you got here unnoticed…”

“We had no idea you were nearby until you rounded the planet,” said Blue Bacchus. “I was outside for target practice at the time—’s the only reason we knew you were coming before you radioed.”

“Oh,” said Krok. “Spinister and Flame developed a—”

“A signal cloaking device,” Flame interrupted, sitting forward to address the warworld commander himself. “It’s still highly experimental, so I’ll have to consider this a success—especially given that it’s not my area of expertise. At all, actually.”

(Scorponok snuck Flame’s datapad away from him and typed at it, very carefully, underneath the table.)

“I thought we had it turned off,” said Crankcase. “You said it was dangerous.”

“I did,” Flame agreed. “And then Misfire broke the off-switch, so Spinister modified it to be _less_ dangerous.”

“In my defense, it was an accident,” said Misfire.

“It was _sticky,”_ said Spinister. “How did you make it _sticky?”_

Misfire looked at Crankcase. “Uhhh…”

Blue Bacchus slammed his palms down on the table to get their attention. “Why was Fulcrum on your ship?” he demanded.

“Uh, dad?” said Fulcrum, raising his hand. “They, uh. They kinda saved my life.”

Bacchus stared at him. “Go on.”

And so Fulcrum explained. Waking up after ages and ages, the misunderstandings about nearly being cannibalized, and the DJD showing up to try and kill him (Blue Bacchus, kicking and screaming, had to be wrestled back into the room by both of his conjuges when he heard that one). Transforming to scare them off, failing, and being rescued by a well-timed collaborative effort between Scorponok and Flame (plus a lot of luck, since Tarn seemed to be having a bad day with his team that day…). Being too blindsided by everything and too afraid to come back to the warworld. When he finished, he fell quiet. Crankcase patted him on the shoulder.

“Just one thing I need clarified,” said Black Shadow. “You turned into your altmode to frighten them—but you’ve been reformatted.” The question was clear in his squinted look, if not his tone.

“Well, uh… it's a bomb,” Fulcrum said nervously.

Something steely flashed in Dezsarus’ optics. Recognition, maybe, or fury. “I'm sorry, what?”

Fulcrum swallowed and played with his fingers. “My altmode… It’s a bomb.”

 _“Leozack,”_ Dezsarus snarled, claws digging furrows into the arm of his seat with a loud scrape that had the Scavengers jumping in panic. “I'll have his _head_ for this.”

“Don't bother,” said Black Shadow, and although he hadn't moved, the cold tone in his voice said enough. “Blue and I will have a word with him.”

The three stared at each other for a moment. Then Dezsarus nodded and visibly untensed, lounging back in his seat once more. “Go, then.”

“We'll be back soon,” Bacchus promised. He dropped a kiss on the crest atop Dezsarus’ head as he made his way out.

Black Shadow gave Dezsarus's hand a squeeze and murmured something quiet against the commander's audial. Dezsarus nodded, and Black Shadow left the same way Blue Bacchus had, shutting the door behind him.

“Are they going to kill him?” Fulcrum asked, his voice very small.

Dezsarus sighed and patted Fulcrum on the shoulder. “I doubt it,” he said. “But he will certainly be more careful in the future. Now.” He drew a steadying breath. “The only thing left to discuss is trade.”

* * *

Misfire padded through the warworld’s hallways. He had promised not to get lost while Krok and Dezsarus handled the nitty gritty (AKA boring) details, but that was easier said than done on such a gigantic ship. If it weren’t for the false gravity keeping everything the same way up, he would’ve surely circled the place several times already. As it was, he kept going up and down the different turbolifts, wandering down a new hallway each time.

This time, he reached… ah, this must be the mess hall. Misfire perked up his wings and skipped out of the turbolift. There were probably a hundred mechs in here, he realized. _Maybe over a thousand,_ his eager processor exaggerated. He wandered in farther.

To one side, he spotted Scorponok and Flame. The former was holding the latter right off the ground—Flame had his arms locked around Scorponok’s neck and his pedes kicked up. It lasted only a second before Scorponok was putting Flame back down and grinning at him—Misfire couldn’t see Flame’s face, but he was holding both of Scorponok’s claws in his hands.

Misfire debated on going over there, but despite the public nature of this mess hall, his pair of crushes seemed to be having a private moment. He kept going.

Someone grabbed his wrist and pulled him down a hallway.

Misfire squawked and stumbled. He looked up in alarm, expecting to see Spinister—but when instead his optics landed on one wide, red-and-black wing, he squawked again. “Black Shadow? What—?”

“Shut up and come here,” said the bigger jet.

Misfire shut up.

Black Shadow led him down that hallway, around a corner (where Leozack was scrubbing the floor with a rag—he glared up at Black Shadow as they passed), and into a meeting room much like the one they’d all been in before. It was smaller, but otherwise the same.

“Sit down,” said Black Shadow.

Misfire sat down.

Black Shadow sat across from him. “Sorry to grab you like that,” he said. “Your signal’s been flitting all over the warworld for the better part of a megacycle. Figured I had to grab you while I could.”

“Actually, it’s fine,” said Misfire. “I’m used to it! Spinister does weird shit like that all the time. One time he popped out of one of the floor vents and…”

Surprisingly, Black Shadow waited, arms crossed, until Misfire’s rambling tapered off on its own. “Um,” said Misfire. “What did you want, anyway?”

“Information,” said Black Shadow. He uncrossed his arms again and brought out a datapad, turning it to show to Misfire. “I assume you know this mech.”

Misfire blinked. “Well, yeah!” he said, and he looked Black Shadow in the face, frowning. “He’s not in trouble, is he?”

“No,” said Black Shadow. “And that’s the weird thing. Y’see, he’s got an admirer. Anonymous, of course.” He took the datapad back and laid it down on the table. “I’ve been asked to get his contact information. You have it. What do you want for it?” He leaned back in his seat, lacing his fingers together behind his helm in a display of casual confidence that Misfire was sure wasn’t supposed to be quite _that_ threatening. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

Misfire stared suspiciously. “This admirer wouldn’t happen to be particularly dangerous, would he?”

Black Shadow shrugged his wings. “You should know I can’t say that. What I can say is that Swerve will be fine. Cross my spark.”

“Well… fine,” said Misfire. He thought about all the things he wanted—cool things from catalogues, movies, guns—and twiddled his thumbs. He had the chance to be selfish, or… Misfire lifted his helm. “I’ll give you Swerve’s contact info, but you have to help me find Grimlock’s brothers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i might have to write a side-story explaining just why leozack is scrubbing the floor, because this chapter is already on the long end as it is, but i'm sure you can infer the reason if you dig through wikipedia and make a detailed conspiracy theory setup on your favorite corkboard


	8. Interruptions

A communication from Black Shadow lit up on Overlord’s HUD. His engines spluttered in surprise, though only for a moment. He read the brief communiqué, and a victorious chuckle reverberated through his form, vanishing into the silence around him. Overlord veered hard to the left and burned in what might be an upward direction. He had an  _ appointment _ to make.

* * *

“Sir, Overlord’s signal just broke pattern and disappeared.”

Tarn bit the inside of his cheek to keep from swearing—or saying anything  _ else _ unbefitting of a mech of his station, for that matter—and marched to the front of the bridge. “So  _ find _ it again, Kaon,” he said. “Do whatever you can to keep that  _ pest _ on our radar.”

“Don’t yell at me,” Kaon groused, jabbing at the console in front of him. “I’m working on it.”

The  _ Peaceful Tyranny _ turned, following the course of Overlord’s vanished signal. A moment later, Kaon announced, “I have signal lock. Should I pursue?”

“Yes,” Tarn growled. “If there’s any chance he’s discovered that we’re onto him…”

“It might not be Overlord,” Kaon reminded him. “We cut off his head. Even Overlord couldn’t survive that… could he?”

Tarn hummed a displeased note. Kaon stopped talking.

* * *

The instant Overlord realized he had a tail, he changed course again and shot a message off to Black Shadow about the delay. He was particular about appointments, and Overlord didn’t want to risk losing the information he’d been promised.

He wasn’t expecting Black Shadow to demand details. Absently, as he was busy trying to push more speed out of his engines, he provided them.

Overlord made for the nearest outpost. Two megacycles on maximum burn with the DJD gaining on him, ever so slowly, every moment. With the  _ Peaceful Tyranny's _ FTL engines, they could easily outpace Overlord's slow movement through the void if they wanted to. But, he supposed, they must want him to feel hunted. And they must know that if they jumped ahead of him, he would twist the other way and get out of dodge before their sensors could re-sweep the area. He wasn't the kind of fool to walk into an ambush he didn't know he could win.

Overlord  _ could _ win this fight, but he would have to get there first.

The time came and went where the DJD could have still jumped without crashing into or overshooting the outpost. Overlord stayed his course, and so did the  _ Peaceful Tyranny _ . They were committed, but so was he.

The outpost loomed closer. Overlord pushed on—the ship on his tail finally broke off, pulling into an orbit around the station. Its speed began to slow in preparation to dock. Overlord's did not.

He crashed through the main observation pane, shattering glass and hardlight alike.

The blast shield crashed down behind him.

Overlord transformed and stuck the landing.

Slowly, he rose. A smirk curled onto his mouth as he took in the scene around him. Low-ranking Decepticons cowered away from him at the far end of the room. Some had fallen—either knocked aside by others or by the explosive depressurization of Overlord’s entry, but it didn’t matter.

Alarms wailed. Overlord grinned.

“Keep running.”

They did.

* * *

It took several orbits for the  _ Peaceful Tyranny _ to dock at the outpost. It was more than enough time for Overlord to find a defensible position. Tarn ground his dentae together and watched as the last fleeing ship left the docking bay.

“Finally,” Tesarus grumbled.

They brought the ship in and docked. They rushed to the exit hatch, but of course Tarn stopped them all just before the exit. “We do this properly,” he said, taking the lead. Helex groaned, and Tarn shot him a scolding look. “Overlord may be watching.”

The Decepticon Justice Division strode out of their ship and onto the outpost's docking bay. They filed down the ramp in perfect rank and file and stopped at the bottom. Tarn cast a glance around.

_ “Where do you think the fucker went?” _ Vos hissed.

“Let's find out,” Tarn suggested. “Vos, Kaon, go in ahead and see if you can locate our target. Helex, Tesarus, and I will wait outside—lest he try to sneak past us.”

Kaon frowned. “Are you sure? If he's too far in there, you might not reach us in time when we find him. He might escape anyway.”

Tarrn hummed. “You know our ground speed, Kaon. If he's too far, comm, and we'll move forward.” He clapped Kaon's shoulder. His other hand found Vos’ back. “Stay together.”

* * *

Overlord leaned against the wall, facing the outpost’s reactor-generator. He wasn’t quite sure of the energy source that it used, or how; Overlord was no engineer, and he felt no need to become one. But what he did know was that any reactor-generator with multiple warning and safety signs in all manner of dialects wasn’t exactly something that encouraged proximate violence.

So that was something, at least.

Overlord stilled his systems to a low background hum and waited.

The cycles passed, slow and unceasing. The reactor clicked, every once in a while, and occasionally puffs of steam escaped the heavy machinery somewhere—only to be whisked away immediately into the outpost's ventilation systems. Overlord wondered about it, idly, but not enough to investigate. He could lie here in wait for the DJD to find him for a lot longer before the boredom really got to him.

He could swear he heard distant footsteps. That was much more interesting anyway.

Overlord exhaled everything in his vents, inhaled a full breath, and stopped his ventilations completely. In the near-silence, he laid his head back and focused on the sound of those footsteps, trying to gauge how near they might be. They were light and quick—not the slow, heavy thump of Tesarus or Helex, nor the regal  _ maestoso _ march that Tarn affected. That meant Overlord was hearing one of the smaller two.

The sound of steps grew closer. Overlord stared at the light crashing in from the open doorway beside him. A slender silhouette loomed into the doorway. And for an instant, the way it  _ moved _ seemed just like—

_ Trepan? _

Overlord’s spark cinched.

He let a little of the air out of his vents and forced the memory away. This was no phantom come to slip into his mind and destroy him. Trepan was  _ dead. _ This was a much lesser, albeit more physical threat. He was safe.

The shadow’s head cocked. It turned. It waited.

Its caster moved on.

Despite knowing that it couldn’t possibly have been Trepan, Overlord couldn’t quite quell the way his hands shook and his jaw clenched. Whoever the DJD’s new Vos was, Overlord already didn’t like them.

* * *

Tarn stood, wrists crossed loosely against the small of his back, and waited from a communication from Kaon or Vos. They hadn’t reported any sign of Overlord yet—Vos mentioned that he thought he might have heard something, but it was only a reactor-generator leaking steam. Not something he wanted to go anywhere near if he didn’t have to.

Tarn privately agreed. Surely even Overlord wasn’t stupid enough to invite a fight next to a damaged reactor-generator.

But he was getting impatient. Restless.

And, clearly, so were Tesarus and Helex. Tarn had better put a stop to that.

“Helex, Tesarus,” he started. They stopped muttering to each other and looked up—and gaped. Tarn blinked, confused by their expressions. “What?”

_ Thud. _ Behind him, a—

“Don’t make another sound.”

Tarn froze. There was an arm curling around his waist and a knife against his throat—wicked serrations scraping with every shuddering breath he took. He swallowed. The knife scraped harder. He glanced in panic at Helex and Tesarus.

_ Ka-klunk. _

“And don’t try anything,” said a lighter voice. Tarn heard an energy rifle cock.

In front of him, his team shuffled nervously.

Tarn had recognized the first voice. The second… he had a pretty good idea, based on the first voice and the rifle.  _ Damn it. _

They could have taken Black Shadow alone, this time. But not alongside Overlord, and  _ especially _ not alongside Blue Bacchus.

“Where did you come from? What do you want?” Tesarus demanded. Tarn’s spark flickered with relief and appreciation for his team, getting him the information he needed when he couldn’t do it himself.

“We want Overlord,” said Black Shadow. “I have something for him, you see, and that means  _ he _ has something for  _ me. _ So I want you to promise that when I let you go, your team won’t try anything.”

“Hold up.” Blue Bacchus stepped forward, where Tarn could see him. He held his rifle casually enough, but Tarn knew exactly how quickly he could have its sights trained on a mech’s forehead or sparkchamber. “Where are the others?”

“…They’re already inside,” Helex said, hesitant.

In close quarters, the DJD’s two smallest members could more than handle finding Overlord and getting the drop on him. They could subdue him until the rest of the team arrived, Tarn ready to sing him into submission.

But out here, with open space behind them, and with two deadly aerials who had worked closely together for  _ millions _ of years keeping Tarn, Helex, and Tesarus from chasing their quarry… that was a problem.

There was another thump and a shuffling sound. “Well, then,” purred another new voice that Tarn really,  _ really _ didn’t want to hear right now, “I suppose I’ll just have to go in after them.”

Tarn watched Dezsarus strut right between his teammates, duck his wings, transform into his distinctive beast mode, and practically slither into the building.

“Uh,” said Tesarus, watching him go. “That’s… not good.”

“We should call Kaon and Vos.” Helex looked uncomfortable. Scared. “Right?” He looked at Tarn expectantly.

“Go ahead,” Black Shadow said, flippant despite his unyielding hold on Tarn. “We’re not here to hurt them—just to take what’s ours and leave.”

Blue Bacchus grinned at Black Shadow over his shoulder, then stuck out his glossa at Tarn.

Tarn was having a very, very bad day.

* * *

“I don’t need to be  _ rescued,” _ Overlord protested, looming over Dezsarus with a glare on his face that often sent lesser mechs running.

Dezsarus crossed his arms and grinned up at him. “No,” he said. “I’m sure you don’t. But this is much faster than letting you deal with a persistent Justice Division on your own.” He turned, tail swishing behind him, and slunk down the corridor. “Come on. Black Shadow is waiting for us. Stop hiding out next to a broken reactor.”

Overlord squinted at the thing and followed Dezsarus. “Broken.”

It spat steam again. Dezsarus laughed. “It’s not supposed to do that.”

“Hmm.”

Neither said anything more for the moment. Dezsarus led Overlord out through the empty outpost until they came to the final door and opened it into the starlight.

Dezsarus snapped his beak at Kaon, who glared and stepped behind Tesarus. Vos growled from Helex’s shoulder. Dezsarus laughed and returned to his robot mode.

“I found him,” he announced. “We can go.”

Black Shadow smiled. “Tarn, my old friend, I want you to keep in mind what Bacchus will do if you or any of your team tries to stop us,” he said. “Are we quite clear?”

Tarn barely, just barely nodded. The knife at his throat prevented much else.

“Good,” said Black Shadow. “Overlord, get a move on. We don’t have all day.”

“I’m sure we don’t,” Overlord grumbled. He glared at Black Shadow as he passed, and headed for the ship the trio had obviously come in on. It was small, but every bit as sharp as Dezsarus—and every bit as flashy, too. Overlord entered the ship and took a seat, crossing his arms.

A moment later, Dezsarus joined him. With a smirk shot in Overlord’s direction, he swished forward and into the pilot seat.

Black Shadow and Blue Bacchus raced in another moment later, practically tripping on each other. “Go, go!” Bacchus urged, falling into a seat across from Overlord, but Dezsarus was already on it. The ship launched before the DJD could even make it to their own ship’s helm. Black Shadow staggered against the acceleration, but steadied himself quickly.

Overlord leveled a glare at him. “What part of ‘I’ll be late’ did you think meant ‘I need help’?”

Black Shadow shrugged. “The part at the end where you said ‘DJD’ with no explanation.” He sprawled into a seat at Bacchus’ side and cocked a brow. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Overlord snorted. “I had it.”

“Dez said you were hiding next to a broken reactor.”

Overlord glared at Blue Bacchus, but he didn’t seem to understand that it meant  _ shut up. _ That, or he didn’t care.

But getting Swerve’s contact information was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it didn't quite fit the flow of the chapter, but i want you all to know that dezsarus chased kaon and vos out of the outpost and vos immediately climbed helex like a cat climbing a tree and spat vitriol down at black shadow and blue bacchus


	9. Open Channels

Swerve gripped his helm and tried, for the millionth time, not to scream. Misfire’s friendly but utterly terrifying message had been playing on loop inside his processor for days.

_Hey, swerve, heads up! I hope your secret admirer isn’t like overlord or something, because black shadow made me give him your number and stuff. Just thought you should know!_

Yeah. Yeah, it would be _fantastic_ if it weren’t Overlord. At this point, Swerve would gladly take Sixshot over this, or—or even Megatron. At least _he_ was an Autobot now. And going to therapy.

Swerve should be going to therapy himself, really. He’d barely recharged, and he’d shirked his last few scheduled visits to Rung due to the anxiety that he’d let something slip, and… and he didn’t know what, but he didn’t want Rung to know about this particular mistake of his.

Whirl and Ultra Magnus already knew, and that was bad enough as it was, but they didn’t know how bad it had gotten. And whatever stroke of luck was keeping Whirl from blabbing this all over the ship, Swerve wanted to keep going.

Swerve scrubbed a hand down his face and groaned. Maybe he should just shoot himself out the nearest airlock so he wouldn’t have to deal with it.

His datapad chimed.

Swerve squealed and scrambled to grab it, holding it against his chest so no one could see. A second later he realized he was in an empty hallway, and exhaled heavily. He scampered the rest of the way back to his quarters and, hands shaking, he lifted the datapad to read the new message.

_Hello, poppet._

Swerve spluttered and his fans switched on high. _What‽_

Another message chimed before Swerve could even think to react. That was probably his fault, since he’d taken so long to read the first one. He held the datapad closer to peer at it, squinting suspiciously as if he could read the mech’s intentions through the screen.

_Sorry to go about things this way, but you never gave me a chance to explain anything before. Can we talk?_

Swerve rubbed at his helm and exhaled slowly, trying desperately to calm his racing spark. At least Overlord hadn’t cold-commed him, but he still didn’t know how to deal with this. Maybe he could tell Overlord that he had a wrong number… but then Misfire might get in trouble. Swerve shuddered to think what _getting in trouble with Black Shadow_ might entail. No, he couldn’t do that to his friend.

So he was actually going to have to deal with this.

Swerve sighed and tried to think. How did one shrug off the interest of a mech like Overlord?

He tapped his fingers against the frame of his datapad and stared at the messages. They didn’t change, they didn’t go away, and Swerve didn’t get any clever ideas. The only idea he did have was really stupid. But it _was_ the only idea he had, so Swerve supposed he was just going to have to _prove_ what he had said about Overlord being out of his league.

By being as boring and irritating as possible.

That would be easy enough, if only Swerve knew how to respond to Overlord’s invitation to start with.

* * *

A day passed.

And another.

There was no response from Swerve.

Overlord growled and threw his datapad into the corner of his room. Mercifully, while the screen did crack (and that was _very_ satisfying to Overlord’s frayed nerves), it didn’t break anything important.

Glaring up at the ceiling, Overlord commed Black Shadow. “Are you _sure_ the contact information you gave me is accurate?”

There was a pause. « What? » Black Shadow huffed. « Of course it is. You can ask Misfire yourself if you don’t believe me, since he’s still here. » Someone else muttered something indistinct on Black Shadow’s end of the comm. « I’m busy. Figure your slag out by yourself. »

Black Shadow closed the connection.

Overlord got up and left to find Misfire. He’d have to adhere to the warworld’s rules on _not brutalizing people,_ but that was… fine. He’d find something else to shred later.

* * *

_Oh my god Swerve. I’m so sorry, I was just joking, I didn’t think it was really overlord. Are you okay??_

Swerve leaned his chin on the heel of his palm and pouted. _No,_ he typed back. _I dont know how to respond to him! I dont want to date overlord!!!_

 _I don’t blame you,_ Misfire responded. _That mechs scaaaary when he’s mad._

Swerve shifted so he could type with both thumbs. _Not to mention hes a decepticon!!_

Misfire didn’t respond for a moment. When he did, Swerve was—and this was becoming a pattern in his life lately—unsure how to react.

_Wait you’re an autobot?_

There was really only one thing Swerve could say. _YOURE a decepticon????_

 _The greatest decepticon who ever lived!!_ Misfire said. _Well no that’s a lie. Apparently everyone knows I vandalized my AutoPedia page now. Thanks black shadow._

 _This is a lot to take in,_ said Swerve.

He almost commed Misfire, so he could hear the mech’s voice and maybe be able to tell how much of this was a joke, but he couldn’t risk someone else hearing him. It was a very slow night at the bar, sure, but Sunstreaker was here—and not only did he have the sharpest hearing aboard the _Lost Light,_ he _hated_ Decepticons. Swerve didn’t want to deal with that.

 _Yeah it is a little bit,_ said Misfire. _Wars over though. No hard feelings?_

 _No hard feelings,_ Swerve agreed, although he would definitely be having a freak-out about this later. Misfire was right, the war was over, but still… _But i still dont want to date overlord_

 _You never know,_ said Misfire. _He’s got a pretty good reputation for some stuff. A lot of mechs would envy you :3_

Swerve blinked, then shuddered. _Whatever his reputation is, i dont want to hear about it_

Misfire key-smashed mirthfully at him.

* * *

Swerve sighed and rolled onto his berth. He was going to start having a lot more trouble sleeping if he kept doing this here, but handling Overlord in public? Nope, not happening. Especially not with how—although Swerve hated to admit to it—Overlord was so easily able to fluster him.

Biting his lip, Swerve opened his messages from Overlord. He was going to have to get this over with eventually. He typed a message—deleted it, retyped, and deleted again. Then he huffed a deep breath through his vents and decided on something simple. Overlord wanted to know if they could talk. He just… had to answer the question.

_I dont want to talk to you this is creepy_

…Swerve deleted that one too, before he could send it. He didn’t want to piss Overlord off, either.

He steeled himself.

_Sure_

Swerve hit send before he could think better of it. Then he tacked on a hasty amendment for the sake of his own emotional stability.

_Just dont call me that again please_

He waited with bated breath.

_All right. Thank you._

Swerve stared. Maybe politeness from Overlord shouldn’t be so surprising, but… well, the mech had just gotten his contact information off Black Shadow, who got it off Misfire, for who knows what in exchange in either case. That didn’t exactly scream ‘polite’.

_I’m intrigued by you, Swerve. You said I’m “out of your league”, but that doesn’t have to mean anything if you’re interested._

Swerve frowned and opened Connex. His account might be locked to everyone else, but he could still access everything himself. So he did just that, pulling up his earlier conversation with Overlord for reference.

If the first still frame of the moving image Overlord had sent him made Swerve’s spark skip, well, that was just because he was terrified of seeing that face—the fact that Overlord was blowing a kiss didn’t help matters. He was still terrifying. Which… was the main problem.

 _If you remember, i also said youre scary,_ Swerve typed.

Overlord took a moment to respond. _…Yes, that is the image I try to cultivate. Is that a negative?_

 _Oh man is it ever. No offense but nobody wants to date someone theyre afraid will rip their arms off for fun,_ said Swerve. _I mean, nobody i know whos in their right mind anyway_

 _Hm,_ Overlord sent. _And if I promise I won’t hurt you?_

Swerve laughed aloud at the absurdity of it all. _How am i supposed to trust that???_

_Even if I did want to, which I promise you I don’t, how COULD I hurt you? I don’t even know where you are._

Swerve bit the inside of his cheek. Overlord had a point. But on the other hand, Swerve wouldn’t put it past the mech to come _find_ him if Swerve happened to get too annoying. And he wasn’t so sure the crew of the _Lost Light_ would be able to handle another of Overlord’s rampages through the ship to protect him—if they even tried to protect him, and didn’t leave him to deal with the problem on his own. (He told himself they would at least try to keep him safe, but the thought persisted.)

_I’m only asking you to give me a chance, Swerve._

Swerve got up and paced his room for a moment. On the one hand, it would be a terrible, awful, no-good, _stupid_ idea to keep talking to Overlord. But on the other hand… life aboard the _Lost Light_ had been terribly boring lately, and… well, quite honestly, having another mech interested in him that way was a bit of a giddy rush. Even if it was Overlord.

Swerve shook his helm. This was a stupid idea. But maybe he could still stick to his plan of convincing Overlord he was too boring to bother with?

Hell, what was the harm in just talking?

Swerve scooped up his datapad to respond. _Fine, but i have some conditions_

 _What are they?_ Overlord asked, almost too fast.

 _1, were not dating or courting or whatever,_ said Swerve. _Just talking. Dating is too scary_

_2, no murder or torture or whatever else you do that hurts people_

_3, you have to be nice to me. Ill call this off if you arent_

_If i come up with anything else ill let you know_

He was half hoping his second condition would chase Overlord off. He wasn’t entirely surprised by Overlord’s response, though, which just went to show how bonkers this situation already was.

 _I’ll do my best,_ he said. _When is your next off-shift?_

Swerve, feeling by now a little bit numb, told him.

_I’ll talk to you then. xo_

Swerve tried to pretend he didn’t know what those letters meant. And for that matter, he tried to pretend his face wasn’t so hot and his fans weren’t running on a terrified, exhilarated high. This was such a bad idea.


	10. A Whisper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it has been AGES since i've been able to write, god damn. minor warning for overlord thinking violent thoughts. chapter not proofread in the least

Fulcrum's status as the son of the warworld's most powerful triad had quickly become practically the only thing anyone could talk about. Eventually Scorponok had gotten the story from an older member of Dezsarus' crew—Black Shadow and Blue Bacchus had found him while they were hunting for one of Heretech’s old weapons caches on Cybertron. He had been forged, a lone newspark in a craggy wasteland of cliffs and nothing. The pair had brought Fulcrum, as a sparkling, back to their at-the-time courtmate, Dezsarus, for the occasional safekeeping. The whole crew loved him.

Scorponok had been disappointed to learn that they were an adoptive family—not because that was any less legitimate, of course; that would be silly. But because some fragile little hope had risen inside him when he’d heard the term.

_Son._

Infocreep made remembering Scorponok’s early life difficult at best, but something about the word struck him deep and made him crave… something. Tiny little bells rang in the back of his mind.

And then something totally unrelated that Spinister had said, something he couldn’t remember now, had sent him to the warworld library to do some digging. He paged through datapad after datapad of old legends from before the golden age.

Dezsarus’ crew had done an amazing amount of work on the library—a little placard indicated Scorponok had Esmeral to thank most for this collection of history. Mechs that claimed Dezsarus and his bunch were a bunch of dumb, savage animals were sadly misinformed, it seemed. Scorponok could certainly appreciate that.

“Hey, Scorps!”

Scorponok startled and fumbled the datapad he was holding. He gently returned it to its shelf, and turned—just in time for Misfire to slam into him. Scorponok grunted in surprise and patted him awkwardly on the back. It took more effort than it should, not to squeeze him close. Especially so when Scorponok was feeling this way, whatever it was.

Grinning, Misfire stood back to look up at him. He left a hand on Scorponok’s forearm. “Flame’s looking for you,” he said.

Scorponok blinked. “He could have commed me.”

Misfire shrugged. “He did.”

Scorponok checked his comm—Flame had not, in fact, tried to comm him since he left for the library. Scorponok smiled a bit. So, he was keeping Misfire out of trouble, then.

“Well, let’s go find him,” he said.

Misfire perked up. “This way,” he said, grabbing Scorponok’s claw in both hands and pulling.

Scorponok swiped a couple of datapads into his subspace on the way out. He made no attempt to pull his hand out of Misfire's.

* * *

Krok drummed his fingers on the main flight console of the _Weak Anthropic Principle._ Tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, went the rhythm. And he waited.

The door to the cockpit whooshed open—Krok turned to see who it was, and offered the mech a smile with his optics. “Fulcrum,” he said fondly. “Come sit down.”

Fulcrum smiled back at him and sat in the pilot seat, since Krok was in the other one—as was the usual, when they had these conversations.

“Hey, Krok,” said Fulcrum. He sat a little bit sideways, pulling one leg up onto the seat and hugging it to his chest. “Sounded important. You okay?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Krok dismissed, waving a hand. “I’m fine. This is a conversation about you.”

Fulcrum frowned. “Okay…?”

Krok took a steadying breath. “I talked to Dezsarus,” he began, and he hesitated a moment. He started tapping on the console again. “And… I hope you don’t mind, but I told him you’ve been groundsick.”

 _“Krok,”_ Fulcrum whined. “Why?”

“Because I’m worried about you,” Krok huffed. “And so is he! He was going to ask you about exactly the same thing.”

Fulcrum crossed his arms on top of his knee and rested his chin on top. He stared out through the ship’s front windshield to the warworld flightdeck. “What did he say, then?”

Krok took a moment to find the right words. “He said… the warworld doesn’t have the resources to repair you,” he said. “Yet. If you want… they’ll find those parts. And they’ll give you your wings back.”

Fulcrum said nothing. He just got up out of his seat and hugged Krok so, so tightly.

* * *

Surprisingly, being cooped up on the warworld wasn’t completely terrible. Overlord supposed that a lot of that had to do with his newfound correspondence with Swerve—not to mention the fact that the ‘no fighting’ rule kept other mechs from trying to start anything with him. While a little torment and devastation was always fun, Overlord had more important things on his mind right now.

Which, again, had rather a lot to do with Swerve.

Overlord was not generally a nervous person. He strutted through life with a certain sense of personal infallibility, and was not particularly accustomed to finding himself in error. Everything bad that happened to him was always someone else's fault—because it had never been his, and naturally, it could never be his. If nothing else, it must be Megatron's, or Trepan’s. Anyone but him.

But then… Swerve had made it quite clear, hadn't he, that it was Overlord's own fault Swerve was hesitant to… to trust him, to give him a chance. Whatever.

Swerve was scared of him, of course. Everyone was. But that was suddenly a bad thing in this case, and Overlord didn't know how to deal with that. It ran in circles in his head, the solution evading him every bit as cleverly as the solution to defeating Megatron. He supposed that telling Swerve all his other playthings had been afraid of him too wouldn't go over terribly well. They had all found that arousing, and Swerve clearly didn't. So frightening Swerve into his clutches wouldn't work. Beyond that, he was at a loss.

It was frustrating. Overlord needed to get his mind off it before the urge to put someone else's brain module through a wall without the rest of their head got to him.

He drank the last of his energon and peered over the rim of the empty vessel at the other mechs filling the mess hall. Four mechs looked sharply away from him when Overlord met their gazes; no one else had dared to look at him in the first place. It was practically empty in here, for all the hundreds of mechs that lived and worked here. It must be an odd hour.

Overlord got up. He left the mess hall with as little fanfare as he had entered—once he had gone, whispered conversations rose up behind him.

He ignored it and made his way up through the large, twisting hallways of the warworld, towards the flight decks. Maybe a little space time would help him get his thoughts in order. Blasting asteroids wasn’t as satisfying as killing living creatures, but it would be better than trying to pretend he was successfully keeping a cool head.

The loud sound of thrusters firing went off as Overlord left the elevator. He stepped out onto the flight deck in time to see—what was the ship’s name? He squinted, just catching the name of the ship before it got too far away. The _Weak Anthropic Principle;_ the ship those Scavengers came in on.

“Overlord,” a voice called.

He blinked. Turning, he spotted Dezsarus making his way over, without his entourage of conjuges this time. “Dezsarus,” he replied. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Dezsarus shuffled his wings. “I was seeing Fulcrum off,” he said. “And then I spotted you, here, and thought I should warn you that you’re not safe if you leave the warworld.”

Overlord frowned at him and crossed his arms. “Safe?” he scoffed. “You think _I’m_ concerned about _safety?”_

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Dezsarus, and he smiled coolly. “But if you leave the signal shielding radius, and the DJD decides to come pick a fight again, and any of my mechs get caught in the crossfire… well. The DJD won’t be the worst thing you’ll have to worry about.”

Overlord narrowed his optics. “You’re threatening me,” he said, skeptical.

“No.” Dezsarus put his hands on his hips. “I’m keeping you informed. Shadow might need you for something, but I won’t let you endanger my crew. If you’re leaving, it had better be permanently.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Overlord, and he stepped around Dezsarus and continued across the flight deck.

“See that you do,” said Dezsarus, and he left as well.

Rolling his optics, Overlord found the stairway to the next flight deck and made his way up. It was smaller—clearly meant for mechs flying under their own power, rather than larger craft. It looked like it had once been merely an observation deck, but the crew of the warworld had ripped out the guardrails and polished the surface until it was smooth enough for even the most delicate altmode to take off of.

There were gouges in one corner—one of the beastformers. A bad landing, or a bad takeoff? Overlord quickly decided he didn’t care.

“Psssst! Overlord!”

Overlord gritted his dentae. He was beginning to tire of all these interruptions. He looked for the voice, and did a double take. Hadn’t these idiots just left?

Spinister waved at him. “Hello! We’ve got a problem, could you help?”

Overlord looked over his shoulder. There was no one else on the upper flight deck. Sighing, he joined Spinister—and Crankcase, who poked his holey head out of the door next to him.

“Did you forget something when you left?” Overlord asked them. “I’m not an errand girl.”

Crankcase waved his hands. “It’s not that,” he said.

Spinister loomed closer—“We’re from the future,” he said. “And we need to steal something.”

Crankcase slapped his palm against his face.

Overlord quirked a brow, unimpressed—but intrigued, despite himself. “Right,” he said. “That’s a terrible cover story. Why do you want my help?”

“See?” Spinister muttered to Crankcase. “I told you.” Then he rebooted his vocalizer and said, very seriously, “We’re scavengers. We scavenge. We need to scavenge a very special power source—and Deathsaurus can’t find out about it.”

Overlord smiled, bemused. “You mean Dezsarus.”

“Yes, yes. Him,” Spinister agreed.

“And, again, why do you need _my_ help?”

“Look, I’m a little lost here,” Crankcase cut in, “but you’ve, uh…” He floundered. “You’ve got nothing else to do! Right?”

“Well,” said Overlord, “I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

Crankcase grinned on one half of his face. “Really?”

“No.”

Crankcase deflated.

“Okay, how about this,” said Spinister. “The fate of the _entire universe_ hangs in the balance! Wow, Misfire should be here saying that.” He looked thoughtful, then brightened. “Anyway! This will also help you get Swerve to like you.”

“How do you know anything about that?” Overlord scoffed.

“Trust me,” said Spinister. “I know things.”

“He does,” Crankcase agreed.

And somehow, Overlord found himself agreeing to help them, if only to spite Dezsarus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am glad to see more swerverlord fics popping up now!! but then i'm also very disappointed to find out most of them are kidnapping and/or noncon/dubcon fics. y'all, PLEASE give me some actually good food, i'm starving
> 
> (of note on overlord's gender and such: he uses he/him pronouns and traditionally feminine titles, so ma'am and girl as opposed to sir and boy. that's just how i write him)


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